


Of Cigarettes, Guns, and Waltzes

by whatsacleverusername



Series: Franklin Huddie Alan [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Violence, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Period-Typical Racism, Physical Abuse, Pre-Canon, Swearing, Until the very end, lots of deaths, this all really long before the war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 08:51:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16699312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsacleverusername/pseuds/whatsacleverusername
Summary: Woah, I know I've been changed,I know I've been changed,I know I've been changed,Angels in heaven done signed my nameA (long) origin for my ghoul character Frank. I figured if I'm going to post more stuff with him, it would be a good idea to at least have this out there.





	1. Chapter 1

“That her?” A voice next to him drew Frank from his thoughts.  
Closing the silver locket and tucking it into a pocket on his uniform, Frank nodded proudly, stating, “yep, that’s my Louise. Ain’t she a doll?”  
“She’s a beaut,” the soldier next to him, an alarmingly young man, said in agreement. Leaning back against the humming wall of the plane, he sighed, “god, I can’t wait to get back home.”  
“Oh, I hear that,” another older soldier piped up. “Sick and tired of these damn nips.”  
“Yeah,” Frank agreed.  
After a moment of silence save for the whirring rotors, the first soldier asked, “you really think they’ll give up after this? I mean, Hitler’s dead, and they’re still gunnin’.”  
“If it ain’t this one,” the second soldier said, “it’ll be the next place they prang that’ll do it in for ‘em.”  
“I guess you’re right…” the first soldier mumbled. Perking up again, he turned to Frank, inquiring, “say, Frankie, why don’t you tell us the story ‘bout how you got that scar again to pass the time?”  
Scoffing and running his thumb over the scar crossing his lips, he rolled his steely blue eyes and began, “if we’re gonna go through _that_ shit again, we have to go all the way back to my third day of highschool, freshman year. See, there was this great big bastard named Joe-”  
“Hate to cut the yarn short, but it’s time to roll up your flaps, boys,” a third soldier said, wading his way through the sea of legs in the cockpit. “We’re landing soon.”  
Looking from the third soldier back to the first, a grin as wicked as the knife that cut him spread across his face as Frank said, “yeah, alright. Sure.”  
Giving Frank an odd look but otherwise paying his smart words no mind, the soldier returned to his place as the plane began its descent.

The air was hot, and the lack of a breeze only made it worse. It was early, no later than 8AM at most, and the troops were growing antsy. They couldn’t be seen, so there was really nowhere to go once the sun broke the horizon. Men lazed around, waiting for orders from someone, _anyone_. The growing tension finally snapped when a lone soldier flew into the campground, the look of a man who’d just seen an entire retirement home’s worth of ghosts on his face.  
“We ain’t supposed to be here,” he panted, out of breath from running for god knows how long.  
“What’re you talking about?” a soldier asked, sitting up from the rock he’d been resting on.  
“Home base screwed up,” he hastily explained. “We ain’t supposed to be on the ground. We ain’t supposed to be here at all!”  
“Slow down, kid,” Frank said, getting up from his place at the folding table, setting his cigarette in the ashtray. “Where’d you get that idea?”  
“Officer Hoaks!” the soldier spewed. “He said- He said-” Fishing something out of his pockets, he handed Frank a folded piece of paper, saying, “here! Read it!”  
Taking the paper and giving the soldier a questioning look, Frank unfolded it and skimmed over the words. His eyes opening wide, he read the letter again, evidently paling visibly as all eyes turned to him.  
“Is everything good, Frankie?” a soldier asked from the table.  
Handing the letter back to the messenger, Frank turned around and declared, “we have to move. Now.”  
“Why?” the soldier on the rock asked.  
“They’re gonna drop it,” Frank answered. “They’re dropping Little Boy.”  
“Here?” another soldier asked.  
“When?” the one from the rock asked.  
“It don’t say,” Frank said, “but we need to get our asses outta here, and quick.”  
Everyone in the area sharing a collective worried glance, they soon began scrambling to pick up as many of their belongings as they could. They weren’t fast enough, they could never have been fast enough, as a deafening boom was heard, the force of which knocked them all to the ground. The last thing Frank saw was a blinding flash of light before something hard collided with his head, knocking him out cold.

It was a miracle he’d survived, the doctors had told him when he finally came to some days later. He was lucky to be alive, all the other soldiers had perished in the blast. True to his priorities, the only questions Frank had was whether he was back stateside and how soon he could go home to his wife. They never gave him a straight answer, but it ended up being just two days later as they could find nothing wrong with the nearly 27 year old. And how does he spend his first day back at home? At a barber shop, per Louise’s request, then various other locations. Leave it to her to drag him all across town, burning daylight like 54 cent gasoline. He didn’t hold it against her, though, however sore his feet were by the time they finally turned in for the night. He was just glad to see her in person again, hear her laughter and voice throughout the day, feel her next to him as they slept. For the first time in months, the world felt right again for Frank.  
In the morning, he was greeted by an itching sensation all across his head and neck. Scratching his scalp without much thought, Frank didn’t register the small amount of hair in between his fingers as he buried his face in Louise’s golden locks. She stirred slightly at the sensation, Frank smiling as she murmured something in her sleep. Before too long the itching returned tenfold, pushing him to sit up and scratch at his head. It took him a moment, but he did indeed notice the brown curls gently falling through the air around him, even longer to understand what was happening.  
Looking back at his pillow for confirmation, surely finding it covered in his hair, Frank muttered a bewildered, “what the shit…?”  
As Frank stood up to look in the mirror, Louise slowly sat up with a tired yawn, looking at the light from the bathroom in confusion. She’d figured Frank would’ve wanted to sleep in, probably past noon, yet there he was, already up at… It wasn’t even past six in the morning yet. Her drowsy thoughts are interrupted as something prickly brushed up against her arm, causing her to jump up out of bed, nearly yelping in surprise. Identifying the hair on the pillow next to hers, she hesitantly made her way to the bathroom doorway, gasping at the sight she beheld. With only a few clumps of hair left clinging desperately to his head, Frank stared into the mirror in utter disbelief, almost not noticing Louise as she cautiously approached him. Turning to look at her, taking in the worry and astonishment plastered on her face, Frank forced a grin, for once at a loss for some quip to make.  
Carefully taking his hand as if afraid of jostling something else off of him, Louise stated, “we’re gonna need to find you a wig now.”  
“Suppose so, huh?” Frank agreed with a small chuckle, squeezing her hand reassuringly.

Taking it all in stride, even as the last of his hair fell out and his skin began turning brittle, Frank continued to laugh and smile through the ensuing strange occurrences. This eased Louise’s worries somewhat, though she grew hesitant around him as the weeks went by, reluctant to let him go with her anywhere, much less out of the house. Despite this odd and hurtful treatment, Frank never once faltered in his love for her, even trying to take guitar up again before his skin became too sore and sensitive for the metal strings. He instead turned to piano, but had difficulty getting out the door to practice as his condition gradually worsened.  
On a particularly passionate October night, Frank continuously placed kisses against Louise’s lips, holding her close against him. Though she relished in the attention, she couldn’t shake the feeling of horror in the pit of her stomach. Stopping him all of a sudden, Louise pushed her hands against his chest and stared at him.  
Drawing back to look at her, Frank asked, “somethin’ wrong, doll?”  
“I just…” Struggling to find the words, Louise finally said, “I’m worried something’s horribly wrong with you.”  
With a slight chuckle, Frank brushed a piece of hair from her face and said, “honey, something’s been wrong with me since the day I was born, but I’m still here now.”  
Delighted to see Louise smile, Frank kissed her neck and nuzzled his nose against her chin. Closing her eyes with a sigh, tilting her head up, she opened them again as Frank pulled away again. She couldn't help but shriek when she saw his face once more; a large gaping hole now resided where his nose was but a moment ago, giving his already weathering face an almost skull like appearance. She practically shoved him out of their bed, panicking all the more when she felt the disembodied appendage slide down the pillow against her neck.  
“What?” Frank asked in confusion. “What’s wrong?”  
“Get off! Get off of me!” Louise shrieked, rolling away from him.  
“What’s wrong?” Frank repeated.  
“Your face!” Louise shouted. “Your nose- It just-”  
“What’re you talkin’ about…?” Frank asked, reaching his hand up as if to touch his nose, but instead found an empty space.  
Eyes wide open, Frank stared at Louise with an equal amount of horror in his expression. Unable to even formulate words, Louise slowly pointed out of their bedroom, a silent order that Frank hesitantly followed. Struggling to keep himself under control, he curled up on the couch while Louise worked up the nerve to pick up the somehow already rotting appendage. She would give him until the morning. She couldn’t deal with him anymore. After that, he only saw her once more before leaving; he didn’t say a word to her, only passed by to find her already with someone else, sitting on the deck that he’d built years ago with a blue gray eyed baby girl in her lap. 

For the next year, Frank grew accustomed once more to street life, calling upon skills he’d developed living as a homeless criminal. It’d been years, shortly after he met Louise some five years ago, but he at least remembered how to pickpocket. He also made it a point to steal the accordion he’d been eyeing for the last two years, an ornately carved beauty priced for hundreds of dollars. As he crept back out of the old music store, he caught a glimpse of a disfigured form in the storefront window, taking a moment to realize the reflection was his own. With the scarf he’d taken to wearing despite the heat fallen from his face, he really took in the gruesome nature of his transformation for the first time. Any hair left on his body had fallen off long ago, his skin had become dry and flaky, his eyes grew permanently bloodshot, his voice became rough and hoarse, and all the fat from his body quickly disappeared, including his lips and most of his earlobes. That explained why it hurt so much to wear even a tank top and shorts, much less the long coat and oversized beanie he’d taken to wearing. He would’ve stood there all night in shock had someone passing by not shouted at him, causing him to whirl around and stare. With nothing hiding Frank’s face, the person screamed in horror, giving him time to flee the scene.  
The next week, Frank overheard two men on the street talking about something that sounded straight out of a fairytale. The first man said one of the local firemen saw what looked like a burned corpse raiding a music store. The other man said he was told the creature resembled a half decomposed old man, to which the first was aggravated by. As an argument broke out amongst the two men, it occurred to Frank that this unknown thing was more than likely himself, a thought which solidified his feelings of being some kind of monster. In a month’s time, after a few more slip ups and being spotted, he found he’d accidentally started an urban legend, even catching wind of a reward being placed for his capture. That was the last straw and he made up his mind to leave, heading to Bakersfield only to find the rumors had spread there, too. He finally decided to leave California all together, aiming for the recently founded town of Las Vegas. A new town, a new start.


	2. Chapter 2

Finding a temporary home amongst the organised crime of 1954 Las Vegas, Frank held an informal occupation of entertaining mafia families in what would become the Sands casino, having been picked up off the street after catching the manager’s attention not only with his impressive music abilities but his strange demeanor. Stopping to watch the coat wearing individual playing in the harsh desert sun, the manager Jack Entratter approached the strange sounding stranger, watching as he sang with the voice of a man with laryngitis yet held his notes strong. As he played, people would join the group forming around him, eventually throwing some form of money into the dusty hat resting on the ground at his feet.  
After the crowd around him cleared, Entratter pulled Frank aside and, very straightforward, said, “that’s quite a get up. You know it’s got to be at least a hundred, right?”  
Intimidated by the much taller man, Frank found it difficult to force out much more than a nod and a mumbled reply as he carefully placed his accordion in its recently pilfered case and started shoveling the change from the hat into his pockets.  
Startling the musician, Entratter picked up the hat to study absentmindedly, commenting, “it’s gotta be hard, standing out here dressed like that. Guess you don’t have a job, right?”  
“No, sir,” Frank answered immediately, standing up straight, though that still left half a foot between them.  
Filtering through the hat and picking out the bills with a thoughtful hum, Entratter handed the hat back to Frank as he asked, “how’d you like to change that?”  
“Sor-Sorry?” he stuttered, staring at the man he recognized solely from word of mouth description.  
“Look,” Entratter said, his patient smile wavering slightly, “you know who I am, right?”  
He didn’t even need a name to assume he was someone that shouldn’t be talking to someone like him, judging by the clean three piece suit. Frank nodded hurriedly in response.  
“You’ve heard of the Sands?” Entratter continued.  
Another nod.  
“Then why don’t I take you on a little tour?” he asked, his smile returning. “My friends and I have been looking for another singer, and it looks like we can help each other out. Besides, if it’s cleared, you’ll be making a lot more than 8 dollars and some change. Er…” Gesturing to the hat still clutched in Frank’s hands, he corrected, “a _lot_ of change.”  
Not giving him much of a chance to say no, Frank found the hotel manager’s arm around his shoulders, gently but firmly leading him down the street. He even handed Frank his accordion and tucked the bills into his collar as they walked, chuckling as the somewhat shaking stranger stared up at him briefly before quickly looking away.  
“Say, you know how to play piano?” he asked as they rounded the corner.

“Alright, kid, you’re good for tonight,” Entratter said, closing the door of the hotel room behind him. “We’ll talk your stay over afterwards. And don’t worry, you’ll get paid for tonight either way.”  
Fidgeting in the chair he was sitting in, Frank nodded absently, still in awe of his surroundings. He’s only ever heard of high end resorts, and they weren’t half as fancy as this.  
“Now, we gotta get you suited up for the gig,” the manager continued, ushering Frank towards the door. “Gotta look the part, y’know?”  
“Actually, I, uh-” Frank blurted out, lightly resisting. “I-I don’t think that’s such a swell idea…”  
“Well, why not?” Entratter asked, stopping to stare intently at the other man.  
His shoulders involuntarily setting into the stance he’d learned from the army, Frank answered as clear as possibly, “I’m not, uh, the most… ‘Easy on the eyes’ guy. If- If you get what I mean.”  
“Oh, come on, kid,” Entratter laughed, clapping Frank on the shoulder. “You can’t be _that_ bad looking with a voice like yours.”  
“You’d be surprised…” Frank mumbled, evidently not quiet enough to go unheard.  
“Then show me,” Entratter demanded plainly.  
With a heavy sigh, Frank rolled up his sleeves to reveal the scabby dry flesh underneath, glancing up to see Entratter’s unfazed expression. With a gesture to carry on, he steeled himself for the inevitable scream of horror as he pulled off his beanie and unwound his scarf from his face and neck.  
He didn’t even get the scarf all the way off before a somewhat more pale Entratter stopped him, saying, “okay, okay, you can stop. I get it.” Pinching the bridge of his nose as he thought for a moment, he wrapped the scarf around Frank’s face and head, pushing him towards the door as he said, “I got an idea, come with me.”

Standing backstage, peeking around the curtain and squinting in the bright light, Frank could hardly believe his eyes, not looking away from the man on stage as he asked, “is that…?”  
“Yep,” Entratter nodded. “Sinatra himself.”  
“Holy crap…” Frank said, only then turning to look back. “I can’t go up there.”  
“Why not?” Entratter asked. “No one’s gonna know, given your current get up.”  
That was true; the bandit costume they’d found for Frank to wear covered most of his face, and what wasn’t under cloth or leather was hidden by the shadows cast by the large hat.  
“That ain’t the problem, sir,” Frank explained. “I can’t go up there with _him_. I ain’t nobody, and- Well…”  
“Nonsense, kid,” Entratter assured with a smile. “You can play that old lady better than Bach.”  
“Y’mean Mozart?” Frank asked.  
“Same difference,” Entratter said. Giving Frank a shove forward, he added, “there’s your cue, knock ‘em dead.”  
Stumbling into the spotlight, Frank froze immediately as the crowd hushed. With all eyes trained on this new kid, Sinatra looked towards the backstage area, quirking a questioning eyebrow at Entratter, who grimaced and gestured back towards the stranger on stage.  
Rolling his eyes, Sinatra pulled Frank to the side, saying, “please tell me you at least know Fools Rush In.”  
Shrinking in such close proximity, Frank timidly nodded, managing a small, “yeah.”  
“Oh, thank God,” Sinatra sighed, turning back towards the crowd.  
Looking back once more at Entratter behind stage, who energetically gestured for him to go on, Frank swallowed the lump in his throat and sat on the bench, popping and stretching his gloved fingers before striking the keys. He forced himself to focus solely on the music, not the crowd at least five times bigger than any he’d seen before or the ridiculously bright lights glinting off the ivory keys. Before he knew it, just as he ran out of notes, an uproarious cheering made him jump nearly out of his skin. He looked up to catch a smirk from Sinatra before he turned back to introduce the next song, which thankfully Frank knew as well. They got through the entire show without any further hiccups.  
Once all was said and done, Entratter motioned for Frank to come back stage, patting him on the back and saying, “knock on wood, but I think you were a big hit.”  
“Really?” Frank asked, tilting his hat up to get a better look at the manager.  
“Oh, definitely,” he said. “But we’ll let the higher ups decide for certain.”

Over the remainder of that year, Frank made a name for himself without ever once showing his face, playing piano for Sinatra and others of similar standing. He began to come out of his shell over time, socializing more with people around the hotel, within reason of course. He even got to meet Jake Freedman, the president of the Sands Hotel, receiving praise in person from the oil tycoon himself. Frank was also present for the worst of it, witnessing the prevalent racism and experiencing it firsthand in some cases, the incredibly presuming patrons assuming his race solely by the fact he never appeared uncovered. He was immediately put off by this, though found himself at a loss to do anything else but keep his head down and accept it. That was until he noticed something very peculiar; Nat King Cole, an African American jazz musician growing in popularity that was staying at the Sands in ‘55, was never present during meal times. Not that Frank was often allowed in public at such times, either. But while he was just some guy picked up off the street to play backup for the big acts, Cole _was_ one of those big acts yet treated somehow even more poorly than he was. Rather than wait for his answers as others curious did, Frank snuck his food with him to Cole’s dressing room, where he learned the singer ate. He had every reason to believe this was far from his own choice.  
Knocking on the door with his free hand, a plate of food in the other, Frank made sure his scarf was covering his face properly as he waited. The door opened quickly, startling him and almost causing him to drop the plate.  
“Uh… Yeah?” a mildly nervous Cole asked, glancing around in confusion before looking down to notice Frank. “Oh, you’re not… Can I help you?”  
“Mind if I come in?” Frank asked.  
“I’m not so sure that’s…” Cole began to say, but shrugged and instead said, “sure, go ahead.”  
With a small nod of thanks, Frank ducked under Cole’s arm into the room, Cole watching the short bundle of clothes on legs before shaking his head and closing the door.  
Sitting at the table, leaning against the wall to watch Frank for a moment, Cole said, “I can… Pull up a chair or something, if you don’t want to eat on the floor.”  
“Nah, this is fine,” Frank said, tearing a piece of beef off and slipping it under his scarf. They never gave him silverware, they couldn’t trust him with it, but that was fine given knives and forks always got caught on his clothes.  
A moment of silence passed by, the two men eating in relative silence. Cole offered Frank a spot at the small table a few more times, but he denied each time, insisting that he was fine eating on the floor. This only added to the singer’s bewilderment, finally reaching maximum by the time he had finished his plate while the stranger was only halfway through his.  
As Frank scooped up some peas and brought them up to his mouth, Cole finally asked, “why’d you want to come sit in here?”  
“They don’t let me go eat with everybody else,” Frank said casually. “And I figured it wasn’t fair you should sit by yourself either. Want some shrimp?”  
“No, I’m not hungry,” Cole said, a little too quickly. Pausing for another moment, he asked, “sorry if you get asked about this all the time, but… Why are you dressing like that?”  
Frank hesitated for a moment, picking out his words before saying, “the people out there don’t care too much for the way I look. Don’t think I look too human.”  
“Right…” Cole said with a small grimace.  
Stopping either men from saying anything further, loud shouting from the hall suddenly tore through the quiet in the small room. They shared a glance of worry bordering fear as the angry voices drew closer, finally stopping outside the door.  
“…Invite him in myself!” shouted one of the voices before a forceful knock slightly shook the door.  
Holding a hand out to stop Frank, Cole got up and tentatively approached the door, opening it to a somewhat red faced Sinatra and glaring Entratter. For a few brief seconds, everyone present froze, all parties staring at each other in utter confusion. In an effort to break the tension, Frank gave a small wave to the two unexpected guests.  
“What are you doing here, kid?” Entratter asked with a forced smile, inviting himself into the room to pull Frank up to his feet by his arm, catching the plate before it fell out of his lap. Apologetically looking to Cole, he added, “I’m sorry, he wasn’t supposed to be here. I can have someone stand outside to keep this kind of thing from happening again, if you-”  
“He’s fine,” Cole interrupted, looking from Entratter to Frank and back. “He wasn’t hurting nothin’.”  
“He-” Entratter hesitated, visibly surprised by these words. Pulled back to the present by Frank trying to tug his arm away, Entratter frowned slightly, letting go of the pianist and saying, “right, I… Right.”  
“Mind if we shift the topic, gentlemen?” Sinatra asked with a tone that suggested there was no real question. “Jack?”  
Glaring at Sinatra, Entratter turned away to speak to Frank, saying, “why don’t you go sit and watch the Girls, I’ll come find-”  
“No, he can stay and listen, too,” Sinatra countered. “I’d be interested to hear what he has to say.” Smirking at another glare from Entratter, Sinatra continued, “I was wondering if you, Mr. Cole, would like to sit with me tomorrow at dinner? I’m sure Jack wouldn’t have any problems if your little buddy tagged along with us.”  
“I, uh…” Looking to Frank, who shrugged, Cole said, “sure, I guess.”  
“And what about you?” Sinatra asked, turning to Frank.  
Beginning to say no, Frank caught Entratter shaking his head, and in a spark of defiance said, “yeah, sure thing.”  
“Great!” Sinatra exclaimed, clapping both of them on the back. “I’ll see both of you there. Nat- Can I call you Nat?” With a nod from Cole, Sinatra turned to Frank and said, “I don’t think I ever caught your name.”  
“Uh… Frank,” he said simply.  
Beaming, Sinatra asked, “Francis?”  
“Franklin,” Frank corrected hesitantly.  
“Close enough,” Sinatra said goodnaturedly. “You’re the guy that was on piano, right? What was it, July? Last year.”  
“Yeah,” Frank confirmed.  
“Well, it’s swell to finally meet you outside of that goofy bandit costume Jack made you wear,” Sinatra said, shaking Frank’s gloved hand. “Same goes for you, minus a few connotations,” he added, doing the same for Cole.  
With a grin, Sinatra excused himself with a nod to Frank and Cole, ambling down the hall with a very unhappy Entratter close behind. Frank nearly chased after them to retrieve his plate of food, but instead settled to let things be, waving to Cole as he made his way down the hall back the way he came.  
Unable to stay focused solely on the food in front of him the next night, Frank continuously looked around at the extravagant surroundings, endlessly amazed by the hotel’s interior. While their other guest made sure to keep his head down, Frank couldn’t help drifting off to gaze at his new bizzare environment, Sinatra watching with a mixture of amusement and befuddlement.  
“What’s the matter?” the singer asked, absentmindedly stirring the soup in his bowl. “You look like you’ve never seen this place before.”  
“I, uh,” Frank said sheepishly, purposefully avoiding eye contact now. “That’s because I… Haven’t.”  
“What?” Sinatra asked, genuinely astonished. “You’ve been here, what, a year and then some? How have you never been in the dining room?” Anger flashing across his face, he grumbled, “why, that low down-”  
“No, no,” Frank said hurriedly, whipping around to look at Sinatra. “It’s fine, I- It’s fine. I really didn’t mind.”  
“Even still,” Sinatra argued, “it’s not right you should get pushed to the side like that.” Turning to Cole sitting silently on the other side of the table, he added, “either of you. _Anyone_ , for that matter.”  
“I know that,” Frank agreed, scratching his head through the beanie. “I never liked how they were treatin’ coloreds. It just… It’s not as important for me. I’m not- I’m a different sort of case.”  
“Yeah right,” Sinatra said, rolling his eyes. “You’re as human as me or Nat here.”  
“That’s debatable…” Frank denied, fighting with the fork caught on his scarf, ultimately huffing and setting it down on his plate.  
With a heavy sigh, Sinatra said, “look, Frankie, as far as I’m concerned, it’s far from right what’s going on here. I don’t know if you think this is a matter of showbiz or what, but if I wanted to use you for my career, I wouldn’t be talking to you. This isn’t about anything else but basic human rights.”  
“I agree,” Frank said. “I couldn’t agree more. But I’m _not_ in the same boat here.” Dropping his voice to more of a whisper, he continued, “I… Don’t think I even count as human any more…”  
“‘Anymore?’” Sinatra asked, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?”  
“I- Nothin’…” Frank mumbled, getting up from his seat. “It’s nothin’, forget about it.”  
“It sure didn’t sound like nothing,” Sinatra argued. “Where you going?”  
“To sleep, probably,” Frank answered, tugging his hat back so it stayed in place as his head hung slightly.  
Practically feeling multiple sets of eyes on his back, Frank moved away from the table, forcing himself to ignore the sinking feeling weighing on his shoulders as he made his way through the door. There was no way he could sleep now, but he needed to get out of there. Be it to think or wallow in self pity, he wasn’t quite sure yet, but he just needed out.

After his first and only dinner in public, at first by choice, Frank’s stay at the Sands began turning sour, the decline in positivity increasing after 1961. By that time, Freedman had died from complications following his heart surgery, Entratter replacing him as president of the hotel. As well as this, the efforts of Sinatra had stirred up his surroundings yet again, this time with the help of Sammy Davis Jr., which apparently ruffled Entratter’s feathers. While the new president stayed true to his conceding to the two singers’ demands of allowing African-Americans into the hotel, his attitude towards Frank only worsened. Things only became worse when the now 43 year old pianist overheard a conversation between Entratter and illegal bookmakers, Meyer Lansky and Frank Costello. Subsequently, he was all but isolated in his room, really only ever let out to perform. Needless to say Frank far from appreciated this treatment, growing to despise the hotel and its occupants, be they formal, professional, or temporary. As far as he knew, his ability to visit was far from missed by performers and audience members alike, only fueling his bitterness.  
Finally, by December of ‘61, he had enough of this, putting his plan of escape into action. He wasn’t allowed to quit formally, but he’d be damned if he was going to stay prisoner to organized crime. He snuck out of his room late at night, using a nail and paper clip he’d swiped to unlock the door. He made it as far as the first floor before he was discovered, a man he never could place in memory attempting to grab him. While the stranger was far larger than him, he didn’t quite catch Frank completely as the accordion strapped to his back made it incredibly awkward, snatching him up at an odd angle that left one of Frank’s hand free enough to pull the scarf from his face. With nothing hindering him, Frank bit down hard into the stranger’s arm, driving the nail into his shoulder when he inevitably cried out in pain and let go. It was far from the most violent thing Frank had done, as a civilian or soldier, but that didn’t stop a strange feeling of pity from shadowing him as he bolted the rest of the way to the lobby and out the hotel doors. It wasn’t strong enough to keep him from running, though.


	3. Chapter 3

After a long wandering journey, Frank finally made it; New York, New York. While the January air chilled him to the bone, it at least drew less attention to his clothing. It didn’t take long for him to find the safest place to stay; though they were far from desirable, the sewers offered a sure fire way to travel through the city without being seen, staying underground until night fell. Plus, who would believe someone claiming a man in a long coat crawled out of the sewer to steal their sub sandwich? It wasn’t the prettiest of places, but it served its purpose well. Since his generally unnoticed arrival in ‘83, the haven provided him with shelter for two years, away from- or directly below- prying eyes.  
That was, of course, until the night before his 68th birthday. It was particularly cold that night, but Frank hadn’t eaten in nearly three days. It was time to head topside once again. However, rapidly approaching footsteps in the alleyway startled him, causing him to drop the manhole cover as he ducked. Either the runners somehow didn’t hear nor see this, or they didn’t care, as he sure enough heard several sets of feet trample over the cover. Much more wary this time, Frank poked his head out of the manhole, watching as several darkly clothed people booked it down the alley. In the very direction he needed to go. Great. Pulling his beanie tighter over his head, Frank vacated the manhole, quietly creeping along behind the stampeding small army. He caught a few flashes of cold metal, and immediately knew it was a stupid idea to follow, but he’d made it that far on stupid ideas. And he was starving.  
He made it just to the end of the alley, which lead to even more alleys like some terrible urban labyrinth, before he heard the shots. Frank scrambled down the path he’d been taking for months now, making it to the wide backstreet just as a stray bullet flew over his head. Searching for the source of the projectile, he instead spotted an oddly short man in a tank top holding a gun, shaking slightly in his hand. Frank also spotted a much larger man about 10 feet behind him, aiming at the other. Perhaps it was instincts, or maybe he just wasn’t in the mood to see the pavement stained a new color, but Frank immediately lunged forward, pulling the short man to the ground, taking the gun from his hand, and nailing the much slower man in one fluid motion. It wasn’t until he helped him up did Frank realize the short man wasn’t a man at all, but in fact a kid who couldn’t be older than 17. The boy yanked his arm away and backed up, staring back at Frank, just as shocked as he was. There was only a few seconds to stand around like that as the boy pointed past Frank, who whirled around to shoot at a man running towards them. He quickly realized there was more than just one kid in the crossfire, fury rising in his gut as he realized the nature of the situation. Practically yanking the kid by his shirt and directing him to the sidelines, Frank ran to the assistance of the kids who directed him to others. Fortunately they were all wearing virtually the same thing, as a few were much taller than others. Such as their apparent leader, who intercepted him just as he was aiming at one of the presumed gangsters.  
“What the hell are you doing?” the young man shouted.  
“I could ask you the same damn thing,” Frank snapped back, shooting around him.  
“Trying to keep guys from getting mowed down,” the young man answered.  
“What a coincidence,” Frank growled sarcastically.  
“You’re not involved in this,” the young man stated.  
“It does now,” Frank argued. “Get down!”  
The young man attempted to argue further, but Frank pushed him over just in time to be hit in the leg with something hard and fast. He’s knocked to the ground as he fired once again, his shot being knocked off course and the bullet flying over the heads of the retreating men. The other kids rushed over to Frank and the young man, all of them shouting and asking questions at once. One of them helped them both up, catching Frank as his leg buckled underneath him. Looking around, he noticed the metal pipe that was flung at him, swearing under his breath as he was forced to lean on the kid holding him up. The boy looked at the younger man that had narrowly avoided a pipe to the head, who grimaced and rolled his eyes, but motioned for him to come on. Another kid appearing at Frank’s other side, they helped him down the alley amongst the group. He managed to get them to stop at the manhole to retrieve his accordion, earning him many odd looks.

“Let me get this straight,” Frank said, running a hand over his head as if to push back hair. “You thought you could take a gang of convicted criminals and get away with it, for _street cred_? Are you insane?”  
“Really don’t think that’s the weirdest thing about this,” the leader, Cal, said.  
With a loud exasperated sigh, Frank leaned his head back to rest on the bag of cement. While they were still processing it, the kids seemed to have taken Frank’s “condition” fairly well, questions greatly outweighing any evident disgust and fear. They weren’t too scared to bring him back to their hideout, at least. That had to say something.  
“Do you really know how to play this thing?” a younger boy, Marcus, asked, looking at the accordion in its case.  
“No, I just carry it around as a memento,” Frank said sarcastically, more truth to the statement than he even realized.  
“Okay, jeez,” Marcus mumbled.  
“That ain’t important right now,” Cal said. “We gotta figure out what to do with this guy.”  
“I’m right here,” Frank grumbled.  
“Shut up,” another kid shouted.  
“We can’t let him go,” a fourth said.  
“What do I look like?” Frank argued.  
“Besides a zombie?” Cal challenged.  
Rolling his eyes, Frank said, “I’m not a snitch. Even if I was, do you really think someone lookin’ like me would waltz right up to law enforcement? They’d sooner shoot me down than listen to a thing I had to say.”  
“He can’t really go anywhere with his leg like that anyhow,” Marcus added. “And he helped us. Duke wouldn’t still be here if he didn’t.”  
Scowling at both Marcus and Frank, mostly the latter, Cal finally said, “fine. He’s staying here. Until we figure out how to make sure he doesn’t rat us out.”  
“Wow, thanks,” Frank grumbled.  
“Cut it with the smartass remarks, old man,” Cal snapped, stalking off to some other part of the abandoned building.  
Frank huffed and shook his head at the cold young man. There wasn’t much else he could do, the metal pipe having messed his leg up pretty bad. He managed to get it back into socket himself, but that did nothing to ease the pain. All he had to do was sit there and squabble with children not even a quarter his age. Exactly how he wanted to spend the night.  
Lingering nearby for a while, Marcus eventually spoke up again, asking, “is… Is now the time for questions?”  
Watching as several of the younger would be gangsters perked up at the query, Frank swore under his breath before saying, “don’t think I could keep you any longer. Fire away, er whatever.”  
“How’d ya end up like that?” a kid asked.  
“Clem, no,” another said, smacking the other. “Ya can’t just ask that.”  
“It ain’t the first time,” Frank said, absentmindedly scratching his cheek. “Doubt you’d be any different in believing a crazy old bastard either.”  
“Try me,” Clem said.  
The edge of his mouth slightly lifting in an ever so slight smirk, Frank shrugged and plainly said, “bomb. Torched everything. Still no idea how or why I’m still around after that atomic shitshow.”  
“Y’mean one of them noogs?” the other kid asked.  
“Nuke, yeah,” Frank corrected. “Burned everything.”  
“No way,” Clem challenged. “That was a hundred some odd years ago!”  
“Not even close,” Frank said. “I ain’t _that_ old. It was, uh… 40? 30? Less- Less than 50 years.”  
“You’re old as dirt!” Marcus exclaimed.  
“You’re makin’ that up,” Clem said.  
“I rest my case,” Frank said, crossing his arms.  
“Okay, well,” Marcus considered. “What about that shot? How’d you learn to use a gun?”  
“Used to be a soldier,” he explained. “Got to see Japan and a little of Germany before, y’know.” He made an exploding gesture with one hand.  
“No shit?” Clem asked.  
“Nope,” Frank said. “None ‘cept the bull they paid me for the whole mess.”  
“You got paid to shoot people?” Marcus gasped.  
“If ya can even call it that,” Frank grumbled.  
All of a sudden, Marcus’ amazed expression dimmed and he asked, “what if… What if those guys try to get back at us…?”  
A silence fell over them at this proposed threat. Frank watched as the three boys looked at each other then back to him, fear widening their eyes to the size of saucers. He immediately recognized the look in their eyes, and a feeling he hasn’t felt since the second World War washed over him. He recalled a startlingly young soldier, his rifle shaking in his hand as he looked on in terror.  
Sitting upright and leaning forward, taking care to not rest too much weight on his bad leg, Frank said, “if they do, they do. We can’t stop them. But we can sure as hell make ‘em regret it. I’ll make damn sure they do if they try anything.”  
The three boys stared at Frank for a moment before they nodded, Clem and the other boy getting up from the ground and walking away. Marcus, on the other hand, moved closer to give Frank a quick hug before following the other two boys. A small genuine smile crept across Frank’s face, somewhat melancholy as he’s reminded of things he can’t ever go back to.  
He only barely caught movement out of the corner of his eye, Frank turning just as an older boy said, “hey… I wouldn’t take Cal to heart. He’s just not sure what he’s doin’.”  
“Duke, right?” Frank asked. The teen nodded, and Frank said, “trust me, it’ll take more than a few names to get to me. Ya get used to it with a face like this.”  
“I guess so,” Duke agreed, pulling a crate over to sit next to Frank. “Even still, he can be kind of a prick.”  
“Just kind of?” Frank teased.  
That got a laugh out of the kid. “Yeah, bit of an understatement there. But he tries. He’s a good guy, tryin’ to do what’s best. I dunno about you or me, but I doubt the others would be around if it weren’t for him. None of us really got a place to go but here.”  
Nodding in understanding, Frank said, “so you’ve got yourself a, uh, little homeless house here, huh?”  
“Guess you can call it that,” Duke shrugged. “Whatever it is, I think it’s good. Better than alone on the street. Guy’s just wigged is all.”  
“I get that,” Frank assured. “It’s like herdin’ cats.”  
“Heh, yeah,” Duke agreed with another chuckle, getting up and pushing his crate back. He stopped and turned around, adding, “oh, and, uh… Thanks for the help earlier.”  
Frank smiled and nodded, watching Duke walk off to the three boys a ways away. Maybe it’ll be okay if a _few_ people know about him.

Watching from the bench he was sat on, Frank nodded at the wary boy looking back at him. Hesitation isn’t going to help him. Frank gestured for the boy to go along, subtly waving a gloved hand. Looking back once more at the disguised man, the boy took a deep breath and ran after an older woman, swiping the small purse from her hand. The woman right on his tail, he immediately turned around and fled to Frank, who stood up and took the purse from the boy.  
“I’m sorry about that, I-I don’t know what he was thinkin’,” Frank said sheepishly, handing the purse back to the woman as she walked up to them.  
“Maybe you should keep a closer eye on your child,” she huffed, snatching her purse back.  
“Yes, ma’am,” Frank said, lowering his voice with shame. “You’re right. I’m real sorry about this.” Turning to the boy, he snapped, “don’t do that, Jack. We talked about this.”  
She only rolled her eyes in reply, turning away from the two and storming away. Taking the boy’s wrist and leading him away, Frank walked in silence with him in tow.  
After they were far enough away from the crowd of people on the street, the boy, in fact named Ry, quietly asked, “didja get it?”  
Holding up the small wallet between his fore and middle fingers, he said, “can’t take all the credit for that one. Let’s see what the old bag had.”  
Turning down a random street, Frank searched through the wallet as the two wandered aimlessly for a moment. Sure he’d properly counted out the bills, he gently tugged on Ry’s sleeve and gestured towards a store. As they entered through the automatic doors, Frank almost immediately caught a younger man staring at them from behind a counter. The two locked eyes for a moment until Frank turned away, hurrying Ry along and out of sight from the cashier’s accusing glare.  
Holding out a hand for him to hold on to, Frank quietly whispered, “stay close. I’m not sure I like the way he’s starin’ at us.” Squeezing the kid’s hand reassuringly, he added, “plus, it’s only fair you get to pick something out after that smooth move.”  
Bouncing with excitement, Ry pulled Frank after him, shouting, “I know exactly what to get!”  
“Woah, ease up, killer!” Frank said. “You tryin’ to take my leg out all over again?”  
Ry eagerly lead him through the aisles, making a beeline for the snack shelves. Of course. Adding the chocolate bar to the basket he’d picked up at the front, Frank smiled and gestured for Ry to go along, picking things off the shelves for the other boys as the pair went along. God forbid he treats just one of them.  
Finally making their way around the store, picking up mostly canned things and stuff that won’t go bad quick, Ry pulled on Frank’s arm, saying, “I wanna hand him the money.”  
Beginning to tell him no, Frank gave in to the excited look in Ry’s eyes, sighing and saying, “fine. But I get to make the doors open this time.”  
Ry had to think about that one for a second, finally nodding and saying, “okay, that’s fair.”  
Setting the basket on the store counter, Frank started unloading the food, picking Ry up and setting him on the edge so he could watch the cashier ring it all up. Frank never got tired of watching kids being amazed at the most mundane of things. They’re always so eager to learn, it’s ridiculously endearing. The thought of his mother and whether she felt the same briefly floated through Frank’s mind before he quickly pushed it away.  
As the cashier was finishing up, Frank took out the wallet and asked Ry, “alright. Can you tell me what the numbers are, kiddo? Forgot my glasses, again.”  
Giggling at the horribly fake excuse, Ry squinted at the number on the cash register, though the cashier said, “that’s $23.62, sir.”  
Frowning slightly, Frank said, “thanks.” Handing Ry a few bills and holding the change for him, he said, “here you are.”  
Taking the money a little too quickly from Ry, and not waiting for Frank to let him hand over the coins, the cashier inspected the money for a moment before placing it in the register. Frank narrowed his eyes at the suspicion, his own being confirmed. He could never stand racists, and he knew it was just a matter of time before he caught one picking on one of the kids.  
“Is that all?” the cashier asked with obvious venom.  
“Yeah,” Frank said, just as coolly. Helping Ry off the counter and handing him the lighter of the two bags, he scooped the other three onto his arm and guided the boy to the door with an unintentionally sour, “c’mon, champ.”  
Now wasn’t the place or time to start a fistfight. Even if Ry wasn’t with him and he wasn’t trying to help out a bunch of kids, it would just be a bad idea all around. Not that he’d be forgetting that little exchange anytime soon. It’d been a couple weeks and he knew it was coming, but that didn’t stop the fire in his eyes or his fists from clenching up. He just wanted to get Ry away from there as fast as possible.  
Pulling his scarf down after setting the bags on the makeshift table of an old jalopy’s hood, Frank started sorting out the food. He set the snacks off to the side in a pile next to what would be more of a test of how much he remembers to cook than dinner. After a few moments, he heard the sound of wrappers crinkling and caught sight of a small hand, but pretended not to notice. Just as the little hand started pulling the snack cake back towards whoever was on the other side of it, Frank turned around with the cans of soup, catching Marcus in the act.  
They stared at each other for a second before Frank smirked and said, “you know you gotta hand ‘em all out now, right?”  
With a small relieved laugh, Marcus nodded and gathered up the pile of snacks, running back over to the group. Smiling as he watched for a moment, Frank carried the soup cans over to the makeshift fireplace he’d made his first week there, setting them down on the concrete by the charred remains of the last fire.  
Walking over to the thoroughly destroyed wooden crate and dismantling it further, Frank called, “alright, what do we got?”  
“Clem and I got bowls!” Marcus shouted.  
“I got a new grill,” an older boy said, lazily waving the metal in the air.  
“Good, good,” Frank said, gesturing for the older boy to bring the grill over to him. “How we doin’ for food?”  
“I got some cereal!” Marcus said again.  
“We also got chips,” Clem added.  
“I picked up some plates and OJ,” another boy said.  
“Do we got cups?” Frank asked.  
“Uh…” he mumbled.  
“I got some,” Duke spoke up.  
“An’ we can use bowls if we gotta,” Frank added.  
Motioning for the boy with the grill to walk over, Frank retrieved the book of matches from his coat and struck one against the ground. Dropping the match in the pile of split wood, he set the grill over top the small fire, grabbing a pot from the trunk of the old broken down car he’d placed the groceries on. Setting the soup to warm up in the pot, Frank sat back to play his accordion some, looking up every so often to check the pot. Going unnoticed at first, the youngest boys, even some of the teenagers, moved forward ever so slightly every time Frank lowered his head like a scene out of a horror movie. He only really payed attention when one of them accidentally hit the grill, Frank jumping up surprisingly fast to save the pot from falling over and spilling everything. Giving the kids a glaring look, he stirred the soup a few times before setting the wooden ladle back and picking up his accordion again.  
Not giving him a chance to play even one note, an older boy named Ferris asked, “whatcha playin’?”  
“Some Simon and Garfunkel,” Frank said sarcastically. “Y’know, ‘The Sound Of Silence.’”  
“No, before that,” Ferris clarified, missing the point.  
Muttering something to himself and shaking his head, Frank held back any further sarcastic remarks, answering, “Leadbelly.”  
“What belly?” Marcus asked, mildly concerned.  
“Huddie Ledbetter,” Frank clarified. “Usually went by Leadbelly. Folk singer from when I was a kid. Died, uh… ‘49? Yeah, ‘49, I think.”  
“Was he like a big timer?” Clem asked. “Like all those fancy guys in Vegas?”  
Grimacing slightly, he shook his head, saying, “nah, not even close. He was from northern Louisiana. No one gave a damn about a criminal, no matter how good he could play that 12 string. They only ever cared about his sentence and the color of his skin. Even after he was ‘accepted’ by the media.”  
“Wow,” Clem said. “You sound really fired up about that.”  
Turning his head ever so slightly, Frank glared at him from the corner of his eye as he began playing a few notes. Every so often, he’d gesture for one of them to stir the pot, eventually falling into a rhythm with every two or so songs signaling a stir. As more of the boys began crowding around Frank to listen and help getting dinner ready, he noticed that all but one was present, though he didn’t hold his breath. The eldest, Cal, still didn’t care for him. Even after all he’d done for them. Frank honestly didn’t worry too horribly much about it, writing it off as survivor’s caution. After all, he’d gotten this far on the same method of suspicion. Yet still… It stung, but Frank knew how to cover that up.

Ushering the boys ahead of him, balancing just on the edge of the catwalk to give them enough room to pass by, Frank carefully counts heads as they move single file. 14, counting himself. Good. Hopefully the rickety thing will hold them all. Following behind them, he whispered directions which are carried up to the front, methodically leading the group from the back with feedback from the front. Finally, just as the lights dimmed signaling the start of the show, they found the overhanging catwalk. Hurrying to find their places, each present had their eyes trained on the figures below. As the trumpet and drums started up, Frank was among the excitedly smiling boys, earning them all a few chuckles and head shakes. Many of the boys there had never been to a concert, and Frank thought that just wasn’t right. So when he heard one of his favorite musicians was coming to New York that October, he made up his mind to get _all_ of them in to see the show. His only regret is he couldn’t find a better spot for them. Still, he was sure they were going to have the night of their lives. Sure, there was his own interests and want to see the elusive artist again, but he told himself it was mostly for the kids.  
“What are they playing?” Ry finally asked, holding Frank’s hand.  
“I think that one’s called ‘Way Down In The Hole,’” Frank answered, not looking away from the show below them.  
“No, why’re they playin’ trumpets?” the little kid said. “I thought you said he was a rock star.”  
“In his own right,” Frank admitted. “I ain’t heard much off this album, but I know not all his songs are like this. I-”  
“Why aren’t we down there?” Clem asked.  
“What, lookin’ like us?” Frank answered. “We wouldn’t get anywhere in a place like this. Not to mention tickets here are nearly impossible to get.”  
“Why’s that?” Clem inquired further.  
Frank shrugged. “‘Cause they can be, I guess.”  
“That ain’t fair,” Ferris pointed out.  
“Lotsa things aren’t,” Frank agreed. “That’s why you don’t play by their rules. Hence this little excursion.” He grinned smugly at the last comment.  
“How _did_ you get us through to here, again?” Duke asked, moving over to kneel next to Frank.  
Waving him off, Frank said, “it’s not important. We’re here, right?”  
“What am I gonna do, nark on ya?” Duke countered.  
Sighing, he answered, “I came in here yesterday after hours and, ah, ‘explored’ some. All these old theatre buildings are built practically the same way anyhow.”  
“Sounds like you done this kinda thing before,” Duke observed.  
While he didn’t answer, the broadened grin on Frank’s face said all he needed to know and more.   
“Oh yeah? Who else you see?” Duke asked, hanging his legs over the side of the catwalk and giving Frank a questioning look.  
“Outside my hopes and dreams?” Frank joked. “Dylan in ‘66, Van Zandt in ‘71, Fleetwood Mac in ‘72- that was a trip and a half- Springsteen in… ‘73? Another Waits in ‘75- A _few_ other Waits actually… Others I can’t remember.”  
“Well, damn,” Duke said, impressed. “You sure get around for an old man.”  
“I’m not- I’m not that old,” Frank argued, stopping himself from snapping.  
“You keep tellin’ yourself that, gramps,” Duke teased with a smirk.  
Jokingly shoving Duke, Frank huffed and returned his attention to the show. It had been nearly a year since he first unceremoniously dropped into their group, and most had finally grown accustomed to his presence. Even the surly almost completely silent Oscar had started talking to Frank, at times without being prompted at all. Still, Cal held strong to his unwavering suspicion, and it was beginning to become a problem. He wouldn’t listen to Frank, and the 68 year old was beginning to falter in his good graces. He knew he couldn’t direct Cal like the younger kids, but when it came to avoiding being arrested or worse, it was mandatory that there was at least communication. Cal wouldn’t even give him the time of day for the first few months, which nearly got them caught more than once. It got to the point that Frank finally cracked and shouted at the young man, just barely managing to reign things back in again as Cal started getting physical. Frank never once retaliated, but it still shook him to realize how close he was to fighting someone so much younger than him. The thought pulled him into a flood of shame, and he distanced himself from the group for a few days afterwards. That all was… Four days ago. Another reason for this venture was an attempt to smooth things over. Catching sight of the tall young man lingering at the end of the group, watching as the lights changed and the musicians shuffled under them, Frank found his opportunity to at least try. Getting up and looking back at Duke, who nodded in understanding and kept the three kids that had gathered around them in place, Frank silently walked over to him, not saying a word until he finally glanced at him.  
“I’m guessing this isn’t your kinda show?” Frank asked.  
Cal didn’t reply, turning his attention back to the performance.  
Nodding, Frank stayed silent for a moment then continued, “y’know, I get it. Change of management is hard, but I ain’t tryin’ to steal your show. I swear. I just, uh, wanted to help, get me? I didn’t want these kids to-”  
“Just shut up,” Cal interrupted. “Just- Just shut up.”  
“I-” Frank faltered, craning his neck to look up at him. “Sorry, if I said somethin’, I-”  
“Stop. Talking,” Cal demanded. “Just stop. You’re full of shit. They always are.”  
“Pardon?” Frank asked.  
“You try gettin’ on our good side so you can break us down,” Cal said. “You’re with the police, or some other group of assholes. You- I-I don’t need to explain myself to you.”  
“‘Course not,” Frank agreed. “You got your beliefs. Who am I to change ‘em?”  
Turning his head back around, Cal only glared at the shorter man for a tense moment before asking, “what do you want with us?”  
Frank had to think about that one. Obviously nothing nefarious, despite whatever Cal thought, but what exactly…  
“I guess I don’t wanna see kids end up like me,” he decided. “Not- Not necessarily _exactly_ \- you’d be hard pressed to get this kinda make over. But- But hoppin’ from town to town, state to state, running from whatever… It ain’t a good life.”  
Cal turned away again, and Frank mentally slapped his forehead. For all the praise he used to get from his ex wife’s friends for his poetry and writing back in the day, he was always horrible at talking to people. Maybe he never should’ve tried. Hell, maybe he never should’ve intervened in the first place. They’d probably be-  
“Sometimes I think they’d all be better off without me,” Cal admitted suddenly. “All I ever do is chase away help and get ‘em in trouble…”  
With a sigh, Frank shook his head with a frown. “You’re young. You can’t hold that kinda crap over your head. Ain’t your fault.”  
“But it is!” the young man argued. “I’m supposed to be in charge, and I can’t even keep my own damn self outta trouble.”  
“You _can’t_ blame yourself for that,” Frank countered. “Trouble follows some people around like a bad smell, they can’t help it. You just gotta work through it.”  
“How?” Cal stared at him, eyes sharp and widened.  
“I dunno,” Frank admitted. “I’m still tryin’ to figure that one out. Always thought it was just somethin’ you learned along the way, so long as you stayed at it.”  
This answer seemed to placate Cal somewhat, his tone softening as he lowered his eyes, muttering, “I just don’t wanna lose no one again.”  
Looking away for a second, Frank collected himself again and said, “I know all about that.”  
“Really?” Cal asked, slightly surprised.  
“What, you think I just popped into existence one day lookin’ like boiled roadkill?” Frank returned with a small smile. “Yeah, I had… I had a family. It was always just me and someone else, but it was nice. For the most part.”  
“What happened?” Cal questioned, turning his body to lean against the railing and facing Frank.  
Shying under the question, he couldn’t help but shrink slightly as he answered, “well… My wife kicked me out, that’s a long story, and- I’m gonna sound crazy, but…”  
“Yeah?” Cal urged.  
Shaking his head, Frank said, “call me paranoid, but from what I know and how I see it, my rat of an old man killed my ma. So, y’know, I-”  
“Wait, how?” Cal pressed.  
“Pretty sure he, uh-” Frank started, but cut himself off. “It’s nothin’, just some jackass blaming things on another jackass.”  
Cal thought about continuing to bug him, but thought better of it. “I never knew my mom,” he stated. “Only ever lived with my pops.”  
Frank grunted in reply, beginning to wish he hadn’t put the no smoking rule in place for this outing. “Can’t imagine what it’d be like, livin’ with my dad.”  
“It was mostly good,” Cal answered the unasked question. “It was hard, but- Better before he…”  
Cal made a small finger gun and an accompanying motion, unable to get the point across verbally. Frank nodded solemnly in understanding, reaching up to place a hand on the young man’s shoulder. If the circumstances were less dark, it might even be considered humorous, the short man reaching as far as his arm could to comfort the younger with a foot on him. Continuing to surprise Frank, Cal stooped over to wrap his arms tightly around him, his first reaction to go rigid and tense before unsuredly reciprocating. Cal held on for a few semi-awkward moments, Frank trying his best to remember what you’re supposed to do when hugged, until he let go again.  
“I’m sorry,” Cal said, the few wet spots on his cheeks catching the glare from the lights slowly moving on stage.  
“What- For what?” Frank asked.  
“For all my crap,” he elaborated. “I shouldn’t have gave you so much crap, I-”  
“Hey, survivor’s instinct,” Frank said, patting Cal on the shoulder. “‘Guilty until proven innocent.’ You were just lookin’ out.”  
“Yeah,” Cal conceded with a slight grin.  
Flashing Cal a smile in return, Frank said, “y’know, now that we got this little scuffle out of the way… You’re fresh outta reasons to ignore me when I ask you to help.”  
Rolling his eyes, Cal turned back to the stage underneath them, watching as they changed to the next song, the leading man for once opening with the song title. “I’ll Take New York.” Frank had to scoff at how fitting it was, exchanging an amused glance with Cal.

The following year, the boys found out and surprised Frank for his 70th birthday that December, making it the first birthday he’d spent with real company in nearly 43 years. Needless to say it was more than appreciated, only strengthening his adoration for them. That seemed to set the tone for the next four years they spent together, brightened by the improved relations. In a strange twist of fate, the terms he was referred to as seemed to deviate moving forward, Frank catching a few paternal names on more than one occasion. While it was somewhat strange at first, it always brought a smile to his cracked weathered face. He didn’t deny the sentiment was mutual, though it took him a while to fully realize that.  
One mid August afternoon, 1992, Frank stood in the doorway of one of the empty warehouse rooms, facing the draft rolling through and blowing his cigarette smoke behind him. He learned the best places to stand to keep from smoking out the younger boys, the seldom remembered doorway being one of his favorites. That day hadn’t been as eventful as they had planned, but it was better than nothing. They got things for lunch, replaced a few dishes that were broken- “went missing,” rather, and Frank showed some of the younger boys what a car motor looked like and how it ran as he messed with one of the ancient vehicles. The whole city block seemed to have fallen into a lull, like everyone was lazing in the summer heat at once. At an earlier point in his life, Frank would’ve been on edge because of this, still silence spelling disaster for troops. Now, however, he felt relaxed and calm, like the whole world was waiting on them.  
Jarring him from his thoughts, little Ry suddenly ran up to him and pulled his hand, nearly causing him to drop his cigarette. “Someone’s following me,” he said, whispering like he was afraid of giving away their position.  
“What’re you talkin’ about, kiddo?” Frank asked.  
“I saw someone walking down the street after me, and then I saw him again,” Ry explained, holding Frank’s arm tightly.  
Sighing and dropping the cigarette, he ground the butt into the concrete, picking up Ry to hold him at eye level. “There’s no one followin’ you, sweetheart. Everything’s okay, alright?”  
“But he was just outside,” Ry argued.  
Refraining from another exasperated sigh, Frank adjusts Ry in his arms and said, “why don’t we go take a look together, huh? You can show me where he was, and if he’s still there, I’ll take care of him. That sound good?”  
Wrapping his arms around Frank’s neck, Ry nodded and held tight as he was carried back the way he’d ran. Stepping outside, Frank had to set Ry against his hip to hold him up as he used a hand to shield his eyes from the setting sun. Looking around, trying to follow the boy’s pointing finger, Frank couldn’t see anything out of place under the orange glare. Not until a metallic sound made him turn his head, spotting the ladder to a fire escape shaking gently.  
Setting Ry down on his feet, Frank gently but urgently pushed him back towards the warehouse, whispering, “go tell the others to start packing up. We need to move.”  
“What’s wrong?” Ry asked, grabbing Frank’s hand again.  
“Nothing,” he answered with a very unconvincing smile. “We just- I think it’d be nice to take a little- little trip together. Go tell ‘em to get ready, I’ll be there in a minute.”  
Waiting until Ry disappeared back inside the building, Frank drew the pistol he’d been given, readying it as he scanned the area. Holding the gun at the ready, Frank slowly backed up towards the building, not moving his eyes from the fire escape and surrounding area. He’ll be damned if anyone sneaks up on him.  
Watching as Frank hurriedly ran in and started putting on the coat and hat he always wore when he went out, Cal asked, “what’s happening?”  
“We need to go,” Frank said simply. “Now.”  
“Why?” Cal pressed.  
“We’re not safe here anymore,” Frank whispered. “Get the kids and your guns and go.”  
Staring at Frank for a moment, Cal nodded hesitantly and started getting people together as Frank finished wrapping the scarf over his mouth. Leading all of them out first and taking up the rear yet again, Frank watched the area around them as they hurried through the alleys.  
Falling behind some, Duke asked Frank, “what are we runnin’ from?”  
“I don’t know,” Frank admitted. “But I have my suspicions, and I really don’t wanna see if I’m right.”  
“You’re kidding,” Duke said. “You mean you’re just chasing us out on a hunch?”  
“Do you wanna turn back and find out for yourself?” Frank snapped. Duke shaking his head no, he added, “get back up there.”  
Nodding hurriedly, Duke ran back up the group, leaving Frank to continue watching their surroundings. He couldn’t catch the gunman in time, running up from the side and shooting twice at them. Someone cried out, another gun fired, and before anyone knew what happened they were all separated. Frank counted heads, but only found Oscar and another older boy named Damian with him.  
“Where’d they go?” Frank shouted.  
“I dunno!” Oscar fired back.  
“I think they went this way!” Damian said, pointing and running.  
At a loss as to what else to do, Frank and Oscar followed Damian down the alley, Frank picking off a man that tried to attack them.  
“Who are these assholes?!” Frank asked.  
“What makes you think we know?” Oscar countered.  
“You were the ones pickin’ fights with random people!” Frank argued.  
“Stop it, and let’s find the others!” Damian interjected.  
They didn’t have to look far, however, as the very next corner brought them upon a terrible sight. Cradled in Ferris’ arms, Ry’s breathing was shallow and ragged as Frank rushed over to them, kneeling next to them to survey the damage. He realized in an instant there was nothing he could do, at least two visible holes in Ry’s shirt where he’d been shot. It took a moment for the young boy to notice him, reaching out a tiny stained hand to Frank. Holding the boy’s hand tightly, Frank did what he could to comfort him while still keeping himself under control. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore, and left towards the sound of shouting, telling the two others to stay with Ry and Ferris. Gripping his gun, Frank raced down the backstreet towards the fighting, rounding the corner just in time to be pulled down behind cover.  
“What the hell are you doing?” Cal whispered harshly. “You’re gonna get us caught!”  
“You tell me,” Frank snapped. “Who are those guys? Why are they shootin’ at you? What-”  
“We don’t know!” Clem whispered, poking his head, alongside Marcus’, out from around Cal.  
“Why are they here?” Frank hissed.  
“Where were we supposed to send ‘em?” Cal argued.  
“I think they found us,” Duke said, pushing them all forward.  
Picking up Marcus and Clem, Frank set Marcus on Cal’s back as they ran, carrying Clem on his own. He nearly lost his pace and fell when he heard a gunshot right next to his ear.  
“You gave them guns?!” Frank shouted at Cal.  
“We need all the help we can get!” he shot back.  
Grumbling and swearing under his breath, Frank followed them through the alleys and backstreets, finally stopping again to catch their breath.  
“Who are they?” Frank demanded in between panting.  
“Some gang,” Duke explained. “We’ve honestly never seen ‘em before.”  
“What do you mean you’ve never seen ‘em before?!” Frank shouted.  
“Now’s really not the time for this,” Duke snapped, almost breaking through Frank’s fury.  
Waving a hand at the two to shut up, Cal said, “stay here and stop screaming.”  
Before either could stop him or say anything, Cal crept forward and headed down the alley. He made it just far enough that no one could pull him down when Frank spotted the gunman, too far away for anyone to run to him. Before their very eyes, Cal’s head suddenly jerked to the side, his body falling to the ground with a dull thud. Duke had to tackle Frank and drag him away kicking, covering his mouth as he began shouting and screaming, else he’d give all of them away. Sending the two younger boys out in front of them, Duke wrestled Frank after them, but couldn’t keep hold of him when Frank elbowed him in the gut. Now freed, he turned and ran down the alley, guided solely by blind hysteria and what remains of his soldier’s instincts. Neither of those could help predict the swarming gunmen, two of them chasing Frank out into the open. Trying to shoot at them while running, he didn’t see the curb and tripped, falling hard on his side. In his haste to get up again, Frank got his scarf stuck under his boot, pulling it and his hat off as he stood up. Stumbling again, he briefly froze at the sight of a sea of eyes focused on him, even both of the gunmen standing and staring in astonishment. Shaking himself from the stupor, Frank hurriedly grabbed his hat and scarf and began running again, stuffing them into his pockets as he pushed through the shocked crowd. He had no idea whether he was even followed after that, everything becoming a blur under the haze of panic and eventual heat stroke.  
A splitting headache finally woke Frank, groaning and sitting upright on the grass- Grass? He opened one eye experimentally, immediately taking note of the darkness of night. Not giving him much time to process his surroundings, Clem and Marcus suddenly hugged him, shouting and crying over each other. He stared at both of them, wrapping his arms around them, trying to make sense of what they were saying.  
“Thank god you're up,” Duke said, kneeling in front of them.  
“Where is everyone?” Frank asked.  
“All over the place,” Duke said. “Damian, Ferris, Oscar, and three other guys got arrested. Ry is dead, two others got shot. It's just us.”  
“…You're full of shit,” Frank said, narrowing his eyes at Duke.  
“I wish I was, man,” Duke mumbled.  
“You're messin’ with me,” Frank muttered, shaking his head. “You're so full of it, that-... That can't- I-”  
Not sure what to say or even do, Duke moved over to lean against Frank's shoulder. Hugging the two younger boys tightly, Frank tried desperately to wrap his head around this, to find some flaw- Any flaw in it, any way to prove it's false. The two boys held on to the old man, burying their faces in his shirt and sniffling. Though he’d discovered long ago his eyes no longer produced tears, that fact didn’t keep Frank from quietly sobbing into the cloudless unforgiving night. 

It was quiet that next month. The kind of silence that could tear a person apart. It didn't help that Duke had disappeared with Clem and Marcus by the end of August, deeming it time to find them a safer place out of New York. Frank would've gone with them, they _had_ offered him a spot next to them, but he was too stubborn and rigid in the face of loss to leave despite the loneliness. He stayed amongst the gray monoliths as the month became nine years, the sun disappearing into the early September clouds. He returned to the sewers briefly before tiring of that, finding his way to an airport over the river. He contemplated things, watching the great metal beasts carry their lucky escapists away, leaving behind the oppressive streets for lights and music. He thought of the value of himself, the velocity of the aircrafts on the ground, the outcome of a deliberate accident. He decided it would be better to board one and keep running, as opposed to being caught under one.  
Waiting until the fall of night, he climbed the wheel of a large cargo plane, finding his way into the cargo hold. The thought that he may not survive the unheated hold occurred to him a few hours later, but his fickle will told him it was better than living in that damn city. He continued to grapple with whether or not to go through with becoming a stowaway, though by the time he came to a solid choice the whirring of engines overruled him. He had no idea where he was going, only that it was away from New York. By about the first day, he decided it had to have been cross country at least. Come the third day, or what he gathered to be, he no longer cared and spent more time trying to find a way to keep warm. He eventually settled for curling up in between two crates, until an encounter with turbulence quickly changed his mind. At a loss for what to do, he ultimately curled up in the corner, tightly holding his coat around him.   
By the fourth day, September 10th, he was overjoyed to hear the sound of the engine slowing down, meaning ground was coming soon. However, when they touched down, he was faced with a new problem; how to get out without being caught. He settled to shed his layers, tossing them over the crates and lying against the wall of the plane. When they came in to unload the plane, they reasoned Frank was a failed stowaway attempt, panicking and dumping his body in an isolated backstreet. Once their voices were but memories, he rose up from his pseudo rigor mortis to hide in the dumpster located close by until nightfall. After a stop in a clothing store, Frank took his newly acquired clothes to the train station, where he learned the city he was in was called Caen. It wasn’t until he read the word Paris that he realized where he was, and the reason he didn’t understand anything. Unable to stay away from cities for long, he wound up hopping the soonest train to the great City of Love.


	4. Chapter 4

Waking up to the sound of fighting drunks, Frank sighed and sat up on the cold concrete. He’d spent nearly five decades in and around the city, but always wound up coming back. When he wasn’t playing songs people probably didn’t understand on pianos worth more than he ever made in his life, not to mention in bars he could never afford, 2045 had just become yet another number, November just a colder part of the year. All that mattered was eat, drink, and stay out of sight, save for the late night drunks looking for a little music. The beautiful lights of the city he may have admired as a younger man grew more and more to resemble taunting figures gloating above him, laughing at his misery amongst the happy people and joyful tourists. He could hardly understand a thing most of them said, what he caught being far from uplifting. The only things he could really look forward to were the bars, the people there being at least somewhat inviting, and the sweet forgiving music he played there. Not to mention drunks are a lot less likely to judge you for what you wear if you play them all their favorite songs. Bonus if the employees enjoy them, too, and allowed you to take tips.  
After another go around of Tom Traubert’s Blues, a rather fitting song he might say, Frank huddled in a dark corner of the bar with an ale clutched in his hand. They always liked him here, the owner or manager giving him a free drink for every sum odd songs he played. Kept everyone happy, he said in borderline English. Frank would just chuckle and nod, downing whatever he was given and get back to playing, or retreat into the smoke and wafting smell of liquor. It wasn’t long before the very spot he sat at became widely accepted as Frank’s space, very few patrons ever bothering him there. Evidently, the redhead that sat next to him didn’t get that memo.  
“You cold, Key Meister?” she asked, earning her a quizzical look from Frank.  
At an earlier point in his life, he would’ve bent over backwards flirting with her, ruby lips, bright eyes, and all. Now, all he could see her as was an invasion of personal space, albeit a strikingly beautiful one. He grunted in reply, throwing back the last of his drink and waving over the barkeep.  
“You play here often?” she tried again. When she still got nothing in reply, she frowned and said, “oh, so you’re ignoring me, huh? You obviously speak English.”  
“Je parle français,” Frank grumbled in an incredibly unconvincing accent.  
“Oh yeah?” she challenged.  
Sighing and laying his head against the table, he muttered, “what do you want?”  
“Just wanted to say I enjoyed your singing,” she pouted. “It’s different from anything I’ve ever heard.”  
Frank scoffed at that, bitterly saying, “you and everyone else. Only difference is you sound American.”  
“Do I look like I belong in a city like this?” she asked indignantly.  
Taking his time to look her up and down, he cocked his head and said, “am I supposed to say ‘no?’”  
Huffing, she crossed her arms and said, “well, aren’t you just a delight.”  
“Never said I was anything better,” he said with a snort. “Don’t like me, well, ain’t nothin’ blockin’ your way.”  
“Fine,” she said getting up and waving a five dollar bill. “I’ll just take my money somewhere else.”  
“If money could sway me, I’d be in some rich bitch’s lap instead of this place,” Frank jeered. “And I’d suggest you get some native currency if you plan on usin’ that schtick, baby.”  
“Don’t call me ‘baby,’ asshole,” she ordered. “You gotta earn that.”  
He smirked at that, nodding his head. He looked up to say something, but was cut off by the head man walking up to him with his drink.  
“She giving you any problem?” he asked angrily.  
Glancing back at the lady, he said, “no, man, it, uh… Ça va. Why don’t you bring her a drink, for that matter. Some, uh…”  
“Rosé,” the lady said, smirking slightly at Frank.  
Giving Frank a confused look but following through, the manangerly man walked off to grab some wine, Frank lightly kicking the other chair as an invitation.  
“You change your mind about the money?” she asked sarcastically.  
“Nah,” Frank said. “Either the booze finally hit, or I’m crazy enough to let myself be entertained by some half hammered chickie.”  
“How do you know I’ve been drinking?” she asked.  
“You can see the whole damn bar from the keys up there,” Frank said, gesturing to the piano with a nod as he stretched backwards. “Plus it’d be pretty hard to miss hair like that. Seriously, must be, what, Target red?”  
Watching his face closely, or what she could make out of it through the smoke and shadow cast by the harsh fluorescent lights, she asked, “sure you aren’t just pretending to know everything?”  
Chuckling at her calling his bluff, Frank thought for a moment before saying, “y’know, if I can’t call ya baby, I’m gonna need another name.”  
“Scarlett works fine,” she said with a smile.  
“Pardon my suspicion, Miss Scarlett,” Frank scoffed. “Seems a little, uh, _all-too-fitting_ , don’t you think?”  
Rolling her eyes, she corrected, “fine, Marie.”  
“You wanna throw in another red synonym in there, ‘Scarlett,’” he teased.  
“Just Marie,” she scoffed.  
Taking a thoughtful sip, he mused, “y’know, there’s an old song about a girl named Scarlett. Only thing is I didn’t come from St. Petersburg.”  
“How’s it go?” she asked, scooching her chair closer.  
“Ah, man, it’s been…” Frank sighed, looking up at the ceiling. “Has to have been more than 20 years since I heard it… Mm…” He hummed for a moment, straining together a few notes before finally singing, “now someone yelled timber, take off your hat. We all look smaller down here on the ground, when you’re fallin’ down…”  
“Maybe it’d be easier to remember by playing?” Scarlett suggested with a smile.  
Frank chuckled and took one more swig of his drink before standing up, pulling the scarf around his neck over his mouth as he ambled up to the piano again. Scarlett frowned as he covered his face, still unable to make out his features. She sighed and waited for her wine, sipping on Frank’s drink as she listened to him fire up the ivory keys. She could satiate her curiosity later as she dragged a half willing half drunk Frank out the door, the 17 shots of whiskey she’d had before talking to him guiding her now.

Grumbling as she sat up in bed, Scarlett quietly swore under her breath as a splitting headache made itself apparent. Pulling a shirt on, she muttered to herself as she walked out into the rest of her hotel room, more confused than surprised by the sight waiting for her around the corner in the small kitchenette. Apparently asleep at the tall table, his hairless head resting in his scarred up hand, a small whistle came from the small cavity where the man’s nose should've been. She had some vague recollection of the strange face from the night before, granted with a hat on its head and a large coat on the body it’s connected to. She didn’t realize until it was too late where she was headed, knocking against the dirty pans on the counter. Sitting up startled, bright shining blue eyes looking around in confusion, Frank noticed Scarlett and practically shrank in his seat. He covered his mouth and lack of a nose with one hand, as if to make it seem that the rest of him was normal.  
“Uh… Hi?” Scarlett said, more as a question than a greeting. Frowning when he didn't even look at her, she asked, “what, too good to say good morning?”  
Slightly parting a few fingers, he lamely asked, “you aren't freaked out?”  
“Oh, please, you're far from the worst guy I've taken home half gone,” she scoffed, sitting across from him at the table.  
Unsure whether to be relieved or concerned, Frank smiled nervously at Scarlett, laying his hand on the table. He turned his head to look around the room, very different from the dark lit surroundings from some time in the early hours, but was drawn back to the practical stranger he'd foolishly spent the night with. In the short seconds between her putting her hand over his without flinching at the feel and opening her mouth to speak, he cursed himself for being such a reckless idiot, for not knowing better when he should, but by god he couldn't help relaxing somewhat as she pressed a kiss against his cheek.  
“Besides,” she said with a smile, “you're that special kind of different.”  
Feeling as though he's watching himself in a movie, he smirked and asked, “is that the _good_ kind of ‘different,’ or are we talkin’ ‘let him down gently and kick him out’ different?”  
Laughing slightly, she ran her thumb over his knuckles and said, “you tell me.”  
“Mm, the latter?” Frank asked facetiously. Laughing as she slapped his arm playfully, he said, “okay, okay, I get it. ‘Debating whether to kick him out,’ I got it.”  
“Are you always this obnoxious?” she teased.  
“Only when people are naïve enough to let me talk,” he replied.  
Scoffing and shaking her head, she stood up and said, “I don't mind if you stay here, there's food in the fridge and coffee already being made.”  
“Wait, where are you going?” he asked, twisting around in his chair to watch her walking away.  
“To take a shower and get dressed,” she answered plainly. “Why, did you want to wa-”  
Hurriedly shaking his head, he said, “no, no, I mean, uh, after you… Why are you leavin’?”  
“Getting attached already?” she bantered.  
“No, I just-” Frank sighed and ran a hand over his scalp. “There isn't exactly a lot of places I can go, even fewer people who'd understand my current predicament. I, uh, don't even know where the rest of my clothes are…”  
Smiling at his oddly adorable nervousness, Scarlett softly said, “how about this; you look for your stuff while I get ready, then you and I can go for a walk. You can stick around outside or wait wherever while I talk to my family. Hell, I bet they'd let you come in-”  
“You're visiting family?” he asked, trying not to sound incredibly shocked. “Aw shit, I-”  
“Hey, it's okay,” she soothed, flashing him a perfect smile. “Don't worry, they're not gonna care if I just show up with someone.”  
Once again confused by the implications of her statement, Frank absently nodded in reply, taking a deep breath and leaning forward on the table again. He's really gotten himself in deep this time.

“You hanging on okay?” Scarlett asked, squeezing Frank's shoulder.  
He absently nodded in reply, staring at the line in front of the wild looking machines and more people in uniform. He didn't realize until now that he had a serious fear of airports, understandably as he'd never even been in one until now. Able to relate to some degree, Scarlett hugged Frank before getting up from the bench.  
“Is there something I can get you to help?” she asked, gently but forcefully pulling Frank's arm to try to get him to stand up.  
Giving in and grabbing their bags, Frank grumbled, “a smoke and hard scotch sounds pretty good right about now.”  
“There'll be something to drink on the plane, I'm sure,” she said, looping her arm around his and leading him towards the semi organized sea of human bodies.  
“Great,” he sighed. “And the smokes?”  
“I told you to take a break outside before we got in line.” Despite her annoyed tone, she took the carry on bag from Frank's hand to lock her fingers with his.  
They'd only been together for just shy of two months, the first being spent upholding a farce in front of Scarlett’s family. She agreed early on to bring him back to America with her after he admitted to missing the country, managing to expertly construct a convincing lie to keep her family unsuspecting. A woman after his own heart. By about the third month, Frank admitted to himself he really was falling for this crazy girl he met in some French bar, though he never managed to say it. How could he? He was only a week away from turning 127 when he met her, and he couldn't begin to figure out how to explain that to her. She never asked why he looked the way he did, what happened to him, but after she kissed him and told him she loved him… It wouldn't be right to keep her in the dark. She didn't laugh, she didn't roll her eyes, she barely asked questions. Whether or not she thought he was insane, she never let on. All she ever expressed was love and understanding, besides the sarcasm to match his own. Watching him tense up as they were pulled into the throngs of the crowd, Scarlett held him closer, pressing a kiss to his covered cheek. He wrapped his arm around her tightly, holding her as close as possible, though she didn't seem to mind. Words of comfort and encouragement found him as they neared the unknown machines, as they began beeping as soon as he stepped under the peculiar arch.  
“It's okay, Frankie,” she said as he jumped when the uniformed man held his shoulder in place, waving a large metal wand up and down his front. “It's probably the buttons on his coat,” she said to the man, gently guiding Frank to remove the garment.  
“Empty your pockets, please,” the man said.  
Pulling out the insides of his jacket pockets to show they were empty, Frank hesitantly looked at Scarlett. The man nodded and waved Frank through again, waving to Scarlett when the machine didn't go off again. Both of them making it through, she lead him over to a large set of metal benches, setting their luggage next to them and sitting next to Frank.  
“I told you the jacket was worth it,” she teased softly, hugging him and laying her head against his shoulders.  
“What even were those things?” he asked, hooking his arm around her waist.  
“Metal detectors,” she chuckled. “Or did you mean the TSA agents? I'm not sure they count as human either.”  
Managing a small laugh, Frank said, “so airport cops?”  
“Kind of.” She laughed as well, patting Frank's arm and getting up, saying, “come on, we're almost through the beast's lair.”  
Slinging his coat over his shoulder, he followed her through the halls, thankful they reached the gate at the last possible minute so they wouldn't have to sit in a huge crowd. He didn't think ahead to the plane itself, however.  
Letting Frank have the window seat, Scarlett leaned over and said, “don't worry, if the stewardesses try to get you, I'll bite their hands.”  
Frank rolled his eyes, but was nonetheless comforted by her levity in his anxiety. He tried to slouch down further in his chair, almost like a child trying to avoid eye contact, but found himself restrained by the seat in front of him. He leaned his head against her shoulder with a small sigh as the plane took off, releasing the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. As odd as the relationship was, as strange as it may have seemed, it always seemed that Frank’s problem seemed to just melt away under her soft touch.

The slap connecting with his face knocked him backwards, his legs falling out from under him as he backed into a chair. He attempted to stand back up, but Scarlett pushed him down again.  
“What the hell did you think you were doing, leaving me alone like that?!” she screamed.  
“Honey, I-I wasn’t-” he tried to explain, but she suddenly came bearing down on him, silencing him with a far too eager kiss.  
The force of her knocking his head against the back of the chair, Frank attempted to push her away, only for her to let go and slap him again. And again. The third time however, he held up his hand to catch her wrist, standing up finally and kicking the chair away.  
“Stop!” she shouted. “Stop, you’re hurting me!”  
Against his better judgement, Frank immediately let go, opening his mouth to apologize only to get punched in the jaw. He _always_ fell for that one. He couldn’t stand the thought of hurting her, even after all the months of this crap. He should’ve left by the second year, when she really started getting physical, but he couldn’t help loving her still, even by the third. Pushing him back against the wall, she began pulling at the buttons on his shirt, kissing him again. He tried to lean away, stand on his toes out of her reach, but he really had only about half an inch on her. Something she made painstakingly apparent each and every day. He grabbed her wrists again, holding them away from him as he fought to stay out of her grasp.  
“Please,” he said, trying his best to ignore her complaints. “Please stop. Stop. I said- I said stop!”  
Freezing at the sudden shout, Scarlett stared at him in piercing silence. It took a moment for him to notice the tears welling up in her eyes, his already bleeding heart practically hemorrhaging at the sight.  
“How _dare_ you,” she said quietly.  
“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to move away from her. “Honey, I’m sorry, I didn’t-”  
“How dare you!” she cried, stomping after him. “You spend all day holed up in the basement, drinking and smoking and _ignoring me_ , never thinking once about how that affects me! I picked you up off the streets! You’d be dead back in Paris without me!”  
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, flinching more with every stomp.  
“Did you ever stop and think maybe you _owe_ me?!” she shrieked. “Did you ever think that I deserved at least some kind of respect?! That you should maybe _thank_ me?!”  
“I did,” he defended. “Baby, I-”  
“Don’t call me that!” she screamed, throwing a glass at him, which he barely avoided. “Don’t you ever call me that!”  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t-” he tried, but she suddenly ran up to him, kicking his already pretty beat up leg.  
“Stop saying that,” she seethed. “If you were sorry, you’d do something different.”  
She kicked his leg again when he tried to run, knocking him over. All but tackling him as he scrambled away, she attempted to wrestle him to the ground, but he managed to get her off him with an elbow to her face. He felt the pang of guilt as soon as he made contact, but continued to flee nonetheless. Watching him run for the door, she grabbed the nearest object to her, a ceramic bird from the table.  
“Get out!” she screamed, throwing the brightly colored thing at him. “I never want to see you again, freak!”  
Opening the door just as the bird hit him, he felt the sharp pain of his flesh being cut and immediately held his hand to his cheek. They both looked at the ground, at the remnants of the blue bird now slightly stained red. Scarlett glared up at Frank, who quickly ran out the door and down the street. The thought of covering himself was lost in the swarm of fight or flight, running from the small house and into the afternoon.   
As the house became but a distant memory, the pain in his leg cutting through the last of his adrenaline, Frank fell into thought as he walked along, ignoring the rest of the world. He realized she was manipulating him months ago, playing off his isolation and insecurities. He understood she was using him, treating him more as a plaything and entertainer than another human. It hurt him still to hear the things she said to him, the mention of his past misdeeds, the claim of him ruining another relationship… She always used that one against him, telling him he’d be sorry if he left, he’d be all alone again. Walking down that street by himself, he realized she was right. She always was. She knew exactly what to say, how to get them out of trouble, how to play to his own interests, how to make him laugh and smile. She was supposed to be the girl that righted all his wrongs, soothed all his pains, fixed his broken heart and all his shattered dreams. Instead, all he got was more heart breaks and an afternoon walking in the mid July heat. Between the sun, the heaving, and his aching bruised body, Frank finally gave out just as he reached downtown. He could distantly hear some people talking, a scream as he was flipped over onto his back, sirens coming up as he finally succumbed to the creeping blackness at the edge of his vision.

“We can’t just hand him over to you.” The voice drew Frank out from his slumber, pulling him back to the waking world. He recognized the feeling of cloth, some of it wrapped around his head as well as other parts of his body.  
“You can, and you will.” The other voice was far more firm and deep, threatening even. Frank thought of several faces he’d seen in his life to match it as he carefully sat up, holding his head as his body screamed in protest.  
“I don’t care who you are, you can’t just-” the first voice is cut off, a dull thud coming from the wall just next to him.  
Frank hardly had time to jump as men in suits strolled into his room, one of them saying, “stay where you are.”  
“What…?” Frank asked, looking at them in confusion.  
“Just stay still,” another man said. “We’re with the government, you’re in safe hands.”  
“I don’t understand,” Frank said. “What- What’s happening?”  
“Get up,” a woman in a lab coat ordered, walking up to the side of his bed and pulling him urgently.  
Dazed and delirious, he stood up and let the woman lead him out of the room, past the unconscious doctor sitting in the chair just outside. No one stopped them as they walked through door after door, down flights of stairs, right past the receptionists. Even in his current mental state, he knew better than to complain about his legs. They way they carelessly pushed him into the back of the unmarked van told him it was probably a good call. They drove for hours after that, none of the men in uniform with guns saying much more than assuring him he was safe and ordering him to stay silent. When the van finally pulled to a stop, he didn’t have a moment’s notice before something was pulled over his head, hands dragging him forward and his feet hitting stone. The stone became tile as they walked, then metal, the sound of it grinding around him as the unmistakable lurch of an elevator going up made his stomach sink. It wasn’t until he heard several doors open and shut behind him, and he was forced into an incredibly cold metal chair with restraints on his arms and legs, was he freed and allowed his sense of sight once again. He immediately took note of the absence of people in the somewhat small room filled with wires and machinery, save for two men standing behind him on either side. A panel lit up in front of him, a stern faced woman staring back at him.  
“Where are you from?” she asked.  
“S-San Diego,” Frank answered quickly. “Where am-”  
“Let me ask the questions,” the woman interjected. “Height?”  
“I- I dunno, five foot ten?” Frank guessed.  
“Your name?” she continued.  
“Franklin Huddie Alan.”  
“Mother’s maiden name?”  
“Alan.”  
“Father?”  
“I-” he hesitated to answer. “I never met ‘im.”  
“Date of birth?”  
“December 7th.”  
“Year?” She looked up from whatever she was writing down.  
“Uh…” He thought quick, saying, “2017?”  
“That was a lie,” she said.  
As soon as the words left her mouth, electricity tore through his body, causing a scream to fly from his throat as his body jerked in the chair. He stared at the woman on the screen as the electricity disappeared, fighting to catch his breath.  
“For every lie, you get a shock of 120 volts,” she said. “You will not perish due to this, but it will continue to be exceedingly painful. Again; what year were you born?”  
Sighing, he said, “…1918.”  
“Impossible,” she said, and another shock tore through him.  
They went back and forth like this for what felt like centuries, his answers becoming more and more slurred as he began losing consciousness. It got to the point that any time he closed his eyes for too long, he’d be shocked. He lost count after about 28, more amazed he hadn’t given out and died already.  
Before he could answer again, a younger woman walked on screen, whispering to the woman, “we found records of a 23 year old Franklin Huddie Alan being enrolled in the US marines in 1941. Everything checks out.”  
Looking at the young lady from the corner of her eye, the woman said, “…I see. In that case, please escort the subject to its quarters.”  
The two men picking Frank up by his arms, they dragged him towards the previously unapparent doors, Frank being far too lost in agony to really register what was happening. He was out again before they even reached the cell, one of them tossing him on the cot before walking off with the other.  
From there, things only got worse, tests being conducted on the poor unsuspecting man. Everything from blood work to a step below a vivisection being conducted, all the while he was questioned about his past, what he knew about atomic bombs, whether he had any idea of the properties of radiation, things that only confused him more. It was always questions, absolutely never answers. The only thing close to resembling humanity they ever showed him was feeding him, no more than it took to keep him alive and able to go through with whatever torture they had scheduled for the next day. He quickly gave up trying to figure anything out, other than he was somewhere called Vault Tec, focusing instead on trying to keep himself something resembling sane. God knows they did their damndest to foil him.

Laying against the wall of his cell, having abandoned the cot for the disturbingly more comfortable stone, Frank tried desperately to force himself to fall asleep. They told him he’d only been there for 30 years- _only_ 30-, but it felt closer to 300. The near constant torment weighed heavy on his mind and body, leaving him as not much more than a trembling obedient lab rat clinging loosely to the concept of escape. He hardly moved as the doors to his cell parted, though when he opened an eye he found no one there. Instead, he was greeted by a bright red light illuminating the walls and casting gruesome shadows. Standing up slowly, Frank waited and listened, able to catch the distant sound of a blaring alarm. Was now his chance? He never found one before, but it didn’t stop him then. Is he going to stall in the face of opportunity? Younger him, the one who got him into this whole mess, would be laughing at him hesitating like that. Maybe he was right…  
Slowly poking his head out of the doors, he looked around, astonished to find nobody around. Not a single guard. Venturing further, he found no one still. Walking down the halls, past the familiar testing rooms, into the big room with the elevator… No one. No sound save for the blaring alarm. Pushing the only button in the elevator, he pressed himself into the corner by the panel, out of sight from anyone who may be waiting outside the doors. He looked out from there, finding people rushing around the room, scrambling to grab what they could and pour out of the room. No one seemed to care as Frank ran into the crowd, following the flow out of the room towards big glass doors. A singular guard spotted him, one of the men that had escorted him to his tests so many times, but even he didn’t do anything.  
He followed the crowd out the giant doors, into the clear wide open, barely recognizing his surroundings as somewhere near Chicago. His attention was torn away from the familiar scenery as he realized why the alarms were blaring, looking up into the sky and wishing he never did. He knew what it was immediately, how could he not? He’d seen one twice; once in a photo, again as it fell from the sky. Watching it fall and hit the earth, he was too terrified to even scream as the mushroom cloud billowed up in the distance, too horrified to so much as move. In the span of a few seconds, the blast reached him, throwing him to the ground as the nuclear bomb destroyed his surroundings yet again. All he could hear over the rush of wind was the agonized cries of people around him. Then nothing once more.

 

The sound of bones cracking under him, Frank sat up amongst the decimated bodies, unable to process what he was experiencing. He should be dead. Is he dead? Certainly he finally died. This sure looked like Hell, scorched and ravaged like a great fire had ran through only a few days ago. The feeling of a leg bone stabbing his arm as he struggled to sit up convinced him he was still living, the thought chilling him to the core. Who knew how long ago he had eaten, but whatever his body had retained found itself splattered over the bones and ground as Frank came to terms with the situation. He forced himself to stand again, looking around desperately for some sign of life, though the unforgiving world showed him no mercy. He finally gave up, sinking to his knees on the scorched earth, laying his head against the once green grass. He barely recalled anything after that. Not until the strangers in the distance, walking towards him weeks later. Despite having been searching for life, he couldn’t help but feel he was looking at the heralds of a completely different kind of storm.


End file.
